


Something New

by shellfishDimes



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: Alcohol, Drunken Kissing, M/M, Stupidity, Sunglasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:53:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9096106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellfishDimes/pseuds/shellfishDimes
Summary: "It's the perfect temperature," Rabi says. He's standing by the water with his hands on his hips, backlit by the sun. It occurs to Ajay that this is the first time he's actually seen Rabi both outside of his radio station and standing up for longer periods of time without showing any signs of panic about approaching wildlife or Royal Army soldiers. He figures it's probably a good thing. "Are we… Are we going skinny dipping or something?" Ajay's hand instinctively goes to the zipper of his jacket. Is this some kind of ritual? he thinks, stupidly."No, dude!" Rabi grins. "Or, I mean, sure, we could totally go skinny dipping later if that's the kind of thing that gets you hot but damn, I feel like it's my duty to warn you that you should definitely, definitely not do that here if you plan to have kids at any point in the future."





	

The mornings in Kyrat are always the best time of the day. Just before the heat hits you like a wall, when the breeze in the trees is soft enough to trick you into thinking that it won't turn into gusts of hot air during the day. After the condensation and the dawn mists lift, when the sun crests the tips of the mountains and when the sounds of gunfire are distant enough to trick you into thinking you're on an exotic getaway instead of in the middle of a civil war. The mornings, when the music on the radio is at its most energetic, better than any alarm clock, and when, despite the screaming cries of the birds, just for a couple of minutes, Kyrat seems at peace.

One morning, Rabi Ray Rana takes Ajay to a lake. He claims shotgun in Ajay's newest borrowed truck and yells out directions, slapping Ajay's wrist whenever he takes a turn too sharply for Rabi's liking. This lake is special, Rabi explains, and this is the perfect weekend to show him why. For all Ajay knows, it could be the weekend — the sounds of gunfire seem more distant than usual, and the Golden Path trucks drive by less frequently. Even if it's not a Saturday or a Sunday, there's a feeling of less-than-usual stillness around them that makes it seem like it should be. 

The lake is just like any other lake — Rabi says this one's called a _jheel_ , because it's high up in the mountains, and lakes that are high up enough get special names as a sign of respect for not freezing over. Ajay thinks that's probably total bullshit, but he's not a geologist, or a geographer, or whatever you'd need to be to know whether these things are total bullshit or not.

("I lied," Rabi will admit much, much later. " _Jheel_ just means lake. I thought they sold Hindi phrasebooks at the airport, man. Get good, Ajay.")

"So, what's so special about this lake?" Ajay asks, when an obvious answer fails to present itself. It's absolutely gorgeous, but Kyrat, in general, is like that — the sky is mirrored in the surface of the lake, the early morning breeze is rustling through the nearby trees, and the air smells so fresh it chills the inside of his nostrils.

"It's the perfect temperature," Rabi says. He's standing by the water with his hands on his hips, backlit by the sun. It occurs to Ajay that this is the first time he's actually seen Rabi both outside of his radio station and standing up for longer periods of time without showing any signs of panic about approaching wildlife or Royal Army soldiers. He figures it's probably a good thing. 

"Are we… Are we going skinny dipping or something?" Ajay's hand instinctively goes to the zipper of his jacket. _Is this some kind of ritual?_ he thinks, stupidly.

"No, dude!" Rabi grins. "Or, I mean, sure, we could totally go skinny dipping later if that's the kind of thing that gets you hot but damn, I feel like it's my duty to warn you that you should definitely, _definitely_ not do that here if you plan to have kids at any point in the future."

"Uh—"

"Your balls would freeze and fall off," Rabi says.

And then, he bends down and plunges a hand into the lake, into the water and the silt.

"Rabi, what are you doing?" Ajay shifts his weight, unsure of what is expected of him.

"Just give me a second, there's a knack to it—" Rabi's mouth twists in a grimace as he jerks his wrist and pushes his arm further into the water. He swears under his breath, and then there's a sucking sound like trying to get at the last drops of thick milkshake with a straw, and he pulls his arm out of the water so forcefully he almost doubles over. 

In Rabi's wet, muddy hand is a jar with a brightly coloured lid and a faded, peeling label that looks older than Ajay. Rabi dunks the jar in the water a couple of times to give it a good wash and presents the cold, still dripping thing to Ajay. 

Ajay turns it over in his hands. The lid is a shocking red, and the label, which peels off some more when he grips the jar with his fingers, has Nepalese writing on it that he can't read and a picture of a smiling, dancing pickle. It's filled almost to the top with a clear liquid that sloshes around as Ajay moves the jar from one hand to the other.

He looks up at Rabi. Rabi raises his eyebrows, and his cheeks push his sunglasses up when he grins.

"Do you know what time it is, Ajay?" asks Rabi.

 _It's six-thirty, and this has to be some kind of ritual,_ Ajay thinks to himself, but he just smiles and lets Rabi have the punchline.

"It's time to get drunk on my auntie's secret raksi stash, chilled to perfection!"

  


* * *

  


Technically, raksi is moonshine, as far as Ajay understands it. It's what aunties and uncles make at home when they can't afford to buy alcohol or the Royal Army won't sell them any, Rabi explains. His auntie Roshni, a legendary figure among Tirtha teens since she never rats them out to their parents when she catches them smoking — something uncharacteristic of extended family in all cultures, Ajay can agree — brews it herself from all the rice she doesn't eat. 

"And the older she gets, the less rice she eats, and the more raksi she drinks," says Rabi. "She says it keeps her young. That, and not having to deal with me and my asshole brother Ranjit every day anymore." 

Drinking strong spirits out of a jar is something that doesn't come natural to everyone, especially not to people who've grown up north of the Mason-Dixon Line. It takes an increasing amount of skill and coordination the longer you drink, and since Ajay has never had moonshine of any kind when cheap liquor and cheaper beer were always more readily available to him from the nearest 7/11, just figuring out how to drink the raksi without spilling it all over himself takes up nearly all of his attention.

He now understands why they drink raksi at festivals here. It stings his nose and blasts through his sinuses. It burns his throat when he swallows. But after he fights back the cough, the burn dissolves into a velvet warmth that leaves him wanting another sip. It tastes a little bit like sake, according to Rabi, but Ajay's never had sake, either. To Ajay it tastes like gin, but the nicer kind, the kind that's just expensive enough that you can continue lying to yourself that you'll buy it when you're at the store next time, even though you know you'll go for the cheaper one, like you always have.

"Hey, Ajay, can I ask you a question? It's something I've been wondering, privately, just sort of, in my down time, you know," says Rabi.

"Yeah? Go ahead."

They're sitting in the bed of Ajay's pick-up, leaning against the sides and passing the jar back and forth. Rabi is leaning back with arms spread wide, like a desperate kid in a movie theatre hoping his crush won't notice he's put his arm around her if he just fakes stretching after a yawn well enough. He has his face turned up towards the sun, and if it wasn't for the way he drums his fingers to the beat coming from the radio, you'd think he was having a nap. Ajay sits with his legs tucked close to his chest, balancing the now half empty jar of raksi on his knees.

"How come you call yourself 'AJ', dude?" Rabi asks. "You chase your bliss and all, I just think it's weird." His head is still tilted up. Keeping it cool, like the answer doesn't interest him. " _AJ Gale,_ " he drawls.

Ajay takes another sip of the raksi. He deliberately looks away from Rabi. "It was just easier."

"Easier than what?"

"Correcting people all the time," says Ajay. "Standing out."

"Did you get picked on when you were a kid or something?"

Ajay could see it now: the incomprehension in people's faces when he had to repeat his name four times until they caught it, the grimaces the kids at school would pull when they twisted his name in their mouths to make fun of how he pronounced it, determined they wouldn't say it right just to hide the fact they couldn't. The hot shame he felt the first time he stopped fighting back and let Ajay Ghale, apart, become AJ Gale, almost, but never all the way, a part. And how over the years the shame burned down to an insignificant ember of embarrassment that dimmed each and every time he said AJ, until it was gone altogether, because he'd finally convinced himself that he belonged.

"Sometimes," he says. 

"Well, you're in Kyrat now, and you don't have to worry about any goras being assholes to you," says Rabi, and when Ajay looks back at him, he's smiling. "Just the regular type of Kyrati asshole. And Hong Kongese, if you wanna talk about Pagan, but I'd rather not think too much about that guy's asshole, you know what I mean?"

Kyrat was different. Kyrat was the first time in over a decade that Ajay had heard the name his mother had given him pronounced by someone else than her. _It means invincible,_ she told him once. It felt — like raksi fished out of a _jheel_ at seven in the morning, like Rabi's foot nudging his when he wants Ajay's attention, like climbing to the top of a radio tower — it felt like something new.

"Damn, I'm babbling again," says Rabi apologetically. " I forgot I'm not on the air, you know? It does feel really, really good to be out with you though, man, thanks."

Ajay looks at Rabi now, and says trying not to grin, "It was your idea to come here."

"Yeah! Thanks for sticking around," says Rabi. "You know I wouldn't share my auntie's best raksi with just anyone, right, Ajay? You're my main man. My top dude. My best _bhai._ "

Ajay giggles. "Your Best Buy?"

Rabi slaps a hand on his mouth and drags it down his face in exaggerated slow motion, a man at his wit's end. "Oh. My. Sweet. _Kyra,_ Ajay Ghale, I am not letting you stay in the country for another second without teaching you how to pronounce your own language!" He sits up and the bed rocks suddenly, the raksi sloshing dangerously in the jar. "I'm serious, dude, stop it with that adorable, goofy laugh, you're not going to change my mind."

"Are you seriously going to turn this into a lesson, Rabi?"

Rabi sits on his heels, motioning for Ajay to hand him the jar. He does, and Rabi drinks it like water. He sniffs and pinches his nose when he's done, but that's as strong as his reaction gets, and Ajay just sits there for a moment, quietly admiring Rabi's alcohol tolerance.

"Yes, _bhenchod,_ " says Rabi, sniffing again. 

"What's that one?"

Rabi raises a threatening finger. "No. No, no. You're not ready for that. That's like, lesson ten."

"It's like a curse word, right? I mean, I gotta know," says Ajay. "I don't want to accidentally slip and call Sabal a bench oat."

Rabi shrugs. "You know what, it wouldn't be the first time someone called him that. I wouldn't worry about it."

"Okay, then. How do you say _Do you ever take off your stupid sunglasses_ in Hindi?"

"Oh, it's _kya tumane_ — hey!" Ajay starts laughing, which makes Rabi bark a louder: "Hey!" He shoves Ajay's legs, which only makes Ajay laugh harder. "It's a medical condition, Ajay!"

"No, it's not!" Ajay argues, barely able to get the words out from how hard he's laughing.

"Yes, it is! I have two limpid fucking pools of chocolate right here, dude, if I took off my shades in the presence of another human being they would go _blind!_ They'd be like, damn, Rabi, are those eyes or did your dad rob a Lindt factory? Aishwarya Rai who?"

"Who?"

Rabi sits back, slumping against the side of the truck bed, deflated. "You are absolutely hopeless."

Ajay wipes at his eyes with the heel of his palm, composing himself. And then he has an idea — or, more accurately, all the raksi in his system has an idea, and he takes it and makes it his own.

"Okay, then, how about this," he tells Rabi. "I close my eyes, and you take them off."

"And then what, you Stevie Wonder me?"

Ajay shrugs. "Yeah."

"That's the stupidest idea I have ever heard, and I read a whole letter by a listener who was convinced Pagan was a member of the Illuminati," says Rabi, and then immediately, before Ajay can say anything else, "Let's do it."

He sits on his haunches, and then he realises exactly how drunk he is, and opts to instead kneel in front of Rabi. The bed of the pick-up isn't exactly wide, so Rabi spreads his legs, trying to give Ajay more room. He reverently places the jar of raksi out of harm's way.

One of Rabi's hands goes to his glasses. "Ready?"

Ajay nods, letting his eyes fall shut. "Ready." 

It feels weird. _Definitely a ritual,_ Ajay's drunk brain provides unhelpfully. "Okay, they're off," says Rabi.

The backs of his eyelids are a dark orange from the sun. "Are you sure?"

"I dunno, dude, you wanna stop hypothesising and check?"

Ajay's hands find Rabi's face almost immediately, which isn't surprising considering how close they're sitting. He runs his fingers across Rabi's forehead, eyebrows, down his cheeks and along his jaw. And it's just a face — slightly rounder than Ajay's and in need of a shave if the way Ajay's gloves catch near Rabi's chin is anything to go by, but just a face all the same. 

"You look so weird right now, man," says Rabi, and the way his cheeks shift under Ajay's hand, he can tell Rabi is smiling.

"Why?"

"Fuck, that shot me right in the heart. You know your stupid, dorky smile, Ajay? You just did it, and your hands are all up in my business right now," says Rabi. "There! You did it again! I swear, it's like it lights up this whole valley. It's a little bit overpowering when your eyes aren't open to distract me, you know. It's like — bam! Here I am! The handsomest motherfucker this side of the Himalayas! Can't escape it. Like that."

Ajay runs his fingers across Rabi's lips, and feels a sharp intake of breath. He shifts closer. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, you're, uh— you're really something, Ajay Ghale."

Ajay moves an arm down, letting his hand rest next to Rabi's leg. He pokes Rabi's thigh with his thumb. Rabi squirms, lets out a breathless laugh. And then, a hand on Ajay's hip. "Hey," says Ajay.

"Hey—" says Rabi, and Ajay kisses him.

He lets it linger longer, until they're both out of breath, until he can feel his lips throbbing slightly and until Rabi says "Holy shit," when they stop.

"Holy shit," says Rabi again, and his eyes are a deep dark brown, and they're wide with surprise. He blinks, and then grins, and the way that grin reaches his eyes and makes the skin around them crinkle means Ajay has to kiss him again.

"I don't want to like, get super real or kill the mood or anything here," says Rabi when they stop again, "but— no, you know what? Nothing is appropriate. Absolutely anything I say right now would make you kick me out of this truck and drive away."

"No way," says Ajay. He puts his hand on Rabi's belt and leans in very, very close, so close he can feel Rabi holding his breath, his heart hammering. Rabi's pupils are blown, and his eyes are darting from Ajay's lips, to his eyes, and back again.

"I don't know the way back," Ajay whispers into Rabi's ear, and Rabi laughs into his shoulder.

And it feels like something new.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks [madanach](http://archiveofourown.org/users/madanach) for helping me navigate the perilous waters of american cultural references. please don't begrudge ajay his shitty hindi and his shitty opinions, he's doing his best. the only full sentence I can say in hindi is mujhse shaadi karogi, but I'm saving that one for ranveer singh.


End file.
